Hick the sicky went to the doctor and found out he has to miss work on Thursday. That will be his third day. He has sinusitis and an ear infection, and received some antibiotics for his trouble. The fever of 100.2 is what is keeping him home, apparently. According to Hick, the doctor said that if he still has a fever on Friday, he should not go to work. That's what he said. The doctor might just as well have told him, "I've got gold fever. Come back every day because I want your insurance money." Hick is not the most reliable doctor's-instructions-relater.
The most breathtaking of Hick's symptoms is the raspy, wheezy cough. Apparently, the doctor did not feel this was showy enough to dwell upon. No mention of why Hick sounds like he's taking his last gasp. I would have bet on bronchitis. That's why I'm not a doctor. Nor a betting woman.
The patient complains of a headache. Not in the sinus area as one might expect, but in the temples. Since Hick has no stress while laying about the homestead, I discarded tension headache from my home diagnosis kit. When I found out that he HAS been drinking water like I suggested, to stay hydrated, but has only had one 12 oz. can of Diet Coke in the last 48 hours, I zeroed in on my current diagnosis. Caffeine withdrawal headache.
Hick really needs to get over this. I am ready to sleep in my bed without fear of being sprayed with contaminants all the livelong night from his breather. The patient is mending too slowly. I feel it would not be proper to cover his head with the quilt when I go to bed. So I cover mine with a Coca Cola hand towel. I'll let you know how that works out for me.
Something's gotta give. I am going deaf from the blaring of TV Land. Hick says he can't hear. It seems to me that Helen Keller herself would be able to hear from the vibrations emitted by that maxed-out volume.
I wish Hick a speedy recovery. Just as long as I don't have to be near his exhale zone, or touch anything his Typhoid-Mary hands have touched. I'm a firm believer in the hands-off method of bedside care.
He's still getting more tender loving care from me than I get from him when I'm sick.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Living in a Tuberculosis Sanatorium Might Be Healthier
Even Steven is monkeywrenching my Saturday plans.
Just when I was confident that somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good...Evil Stevie tries the old phonograph-record screech on my idyllic outing. Hick is with cold.
To hear Hick tell it, in his feeble, raspy voice that not even a day off from work could repair, he is knocking at death's door. Excuse me. We're dealing with Hick. The man who assumes every headache is a brain tumor, every sore throat a deadly case of epiglottitis, every stubbed toe a bout of gout, and every tummy pain an ectopic pregnancy. Okay. I might have exaggerated on that last one.
I, on the other Germ-X-doused hand, do not see Hick at death's door. I see him huddled in his copper-colored 1980 Olds Toronado, crouching below window level, at dusk, parked out on the street beside a mailbox labeled "The Deaths," peering into their picture window as they sit down at the dining room table, all resplendent in their hooded black robes, scythes leaned against the sideboard, ready to dig into a sumptuous feast, as Daddy Death says, "Let's hope this time we aren't interrupted by a knock at the door." Yeah. Just like a Gary Larson cartoon in my old Far Side calendar.
To hear Hick tell it, he was too sick today to properly unclog my kitchen sink that he said he unclogged Sunday afternoon. But he wasn't too sick to drive himself to town for a keg of NyQuil to drown his sorrows tonight. I say he might as well drink. Alcohol is probably healthier than NyQuil. I suggested that he go right to bed, because I can't draw out my bedtime until much past 2:00 a.m. I have work tomorrow, you know. And Hick may not. I figure if he goes to bed now, he'll be restless in the early morning hours, and I can sleep the sleep of the un-sprayed-upon-by-Hick's-breathing apparatus while Hick rests in the recliner.
As Even Steven is my witness, I am going to ensure that Hick makes a miraculous recovery by Saturday. Even if it means that I have to do a basketful of good deeds in the next three days. The Pony and I are hiding out in the basement, washing our hands of Hick in more ways than one. We have no intention of contracting his ailment. We have plans to invade a bookstore on Saturday. And we need a driver.
I'm going. I'm really going.
Just when I was confident that somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good...Evil Stevie tries the old phonograph-record screech on my idyllic outing. Hick is with cold.
To hear Hick tell it, in his feeble, raspy voice that not even a day off from work could repair, he is knocking at death's door. Excuse me. We're dealing with Hick. The man who assumes every headache is a brain tumor, every sore throat a deadly case of epiglottitis, every stubbed toe a bout of gout, and every tummy pain an ectopic pregnancy. Okay. I might have exaggerated on that last one.
I, on the other Germ-X-doused hand, do not see Hick at death's door. I see him huddled in his copper-colored 1980 Olds Toronado, crouching below window level, at dusk, parked out on the street beside a mailbox labeled "The Deaths," peering into their picture window as they sit down at the dining room table, all resplendent in their hooded black robes, scythes leaned against the sideboard, ready to dig into a sumptuous feast, as Daddy Death says, "Let's hope this time we aren't interrupted by a knock at the door." Yeah. Just like a Gary Larson cartoon in my old Far Side calendar.
To hear Hick tell it, he was too sick today to properly unclog my kitchen sink that he said he unclogged Sunday afternoon. But he wasn't too sick to drive himself to town for a keg of NyQuil to drown his sorrows tonight. I say he might as well drink. Alcohol is probably healthier than NyQuil. I suggested that he go right to bed, because I can't draw out my bedtime until much past 2:00 a.m. I have work tomorrow, you know. And Hick may not. I figure if he goes to bed now, he'll be restless in the early morning hours, and I can sleep the sleep of the un-sprayed-upon-by-Hick's-breathing apparatus while Hick rests in the recliner.
As Even Steven is my witness, I am going to ensure that Hick makes a miraculous recovery by Saturday. Even if it means that I have to do a basketful of good deeds in the next three days. The Pony and I are hiding out in the basement, washing our hands of Hick in more ways than one. We have no intention of contracting his ailment. We have plans to invade a bookstore on Saturday. And we need a driver.
I'm going. I'm really going.
Monday, December 3, 2012
The Belle Prepares for the Ball
I am trying to put together an ensemble suitable for Saturday's event. One can't simply waltz into an independent bookstore, drop a few canned goods, nab a book, get it signed, and retreat to peep out from behind a potted plant while wearing just any old thing.
I am deliberating. Do I want a tasteful black bow in my hair like Rose Marie? Perhaps a Rhoda Morgenstern head scarf? Some June Cleaver Pearls would be a nice touch. With a cashmere sweater that just happens to have been a gift, with a red dot on it. I could pair that sweater with a prairie skirt, the likes of which have not been seen since Caroline Ingalls went off the air. To step into a pair of Crocs would be too simple. I'm considering a sturdy pair of black basketball hightops like those worn by Mary Wickes in The Trouble With Angels.
Or maybe I'll just do a full-on Mimi, like Kathy Kinney on the Drew Carey Show.
I'm sure you'll all recognize me the minute I walk in. We'll be the family shoving each other to avoid walking through the door first. The Pony is the young man who won't look you in the eye or talk to you. He will duck his head and mumble before worming his way behind me. Hick will speak in grunts because he won't know what to say. "Huh." That will apply to every topic that is not goats, chickens, or machines. And I, the life of the party, will try to appear socially acceptable.
It's so hard.
I am deliberating. Do I want a tasteful black bow in my hair like Rose Marie? Perhaps a Rhoda Morgenstern head scarf? Some June Cleaver Pearls would be a nice touch. With a cashmere sweater that just happens to have been a gift, with a red dot on it. I could pair that sweater with a prairie skirt, the likes of which have not been seen since Caroline Ingalls went off the air. To step into a pair of Crocs would be too simple. I'm considering a sturdy pair of black basketball hightops like those worn by Mary Wickes in The Trouble With Angels.
Or maybe I'll just do a full-on Mimi, like Kathy Kinney on the Drew Carey Show.
I'm sure you'll all recognize me the minute I walk in. We'll be the family shoving each other to avoid walking through the door first. The Pony is the young man who won't look you in the eye or talk to you. He will duck his head and mumble before worming his way behind me. Hick will speak in grunts because he won't know what to say. "Huh." That will apply to every topic that is not goats, chickens, or machines. And I, the life of the party, will try to appear socially acceptable.
It's so hard.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Mounting the Assault
The Pony is a victim of neglect. It shames me to admit such a heinous act of omission, but the truth is, The Pony has never set hoof inside a bookstore.
It's not like I'm trying to shelter him from the literary world. That boy reads all the time. He has a Kindle and a Kindle Fire. A bookshelf build along one wall of his room by Hick. He reads Clive Cussler, by cracky! We even have a library card for which we are ripped off $5.00 per person because we live outside the city limits. The problem is that there are no bookstores in Backroads.
When I was a kid, and an adolescent, and a young adult, a couple of bookstores tried to keep their papery heads above water in the Backroads small business lagoon. I suppose my purchases of a couple books every other week were not enough to keep them afloat. When they went under for the third time and entered Davy Jones's locker, I graduated to chains like B. Dalton at South County Mall, and Waldenbooks just across Lindbergh. The Pony has had to make do with Scholastic book orders, and my Amazon acumen. He is missing the whole bookstore ambiance. I fear he might believe that books are found under cabbage leaves, or delivered by the stork. I think it behooves me to expose The Pony to this cultural experience.
Add to my wacky Lucy-and-Ethel schemes a trip to The Book House on December 8th for a Chicken Soup signing by local authors. A foray fraught with more logistical machinations than the invasion of Normandy. Though the lure of a certain author with her magical butt encased in pajama jeans was strong, a visit to All on the Same Page was out. The Pony has his first high school academic meet at 9:00 a.m. I was not averse to a jaunt to St. Charles to drop by Main Street Books and, perhaps, partake of some gaming activities afterward. Alas, casinos are not Pony-friendly, and if his team gets knocked out of the smarts tournament early-on, The Pony has his bowling league at noon. So that left The Book House. Which looks perfectly charming and mysterious, if one is to judge a bookstore by its website.
Not only is Crocs aficionado Sioux signing books at The Book House, but Donna Volkenannt, a latter-day Erma Bombeck, will be there as well. I am not familiar enough with Beth M. Wood to skewer her on this page, but I have read about her exploits on Sioux's blog. So there you have it. If Linda "Eagle Eye" O'Connell makes good with her comment threat to show up at that venue, I could kill four birds with one stone. WAIT! I'm not going to kill you! Really. There will be witnesses. And I'm not a very good stone thrower. Back-knifing is more my style. WAIT! I will be unarmed. I promise. Will any menfolk be present to entertain Hick? His favorite topics are goats, chickens, flea market finds, and fixing machines. He's not exactly a bibliophile.
For anybody planning to invade my rural compound while I am way, let my forewarning forearm you. This means you, Publisher's Clearing House, student fundraiser beggars, Mormon missionaries, Jehovah's Witnesses bestowing gifts of The Watchtower, revenuers looking for a still down by Hick's creekside cabin, government operatives snooping into my conspiracy beliefs, and Wet Bandits. Genius will be home. Strapping seventeen-year-old Genius, who turns eighteen in less than two weeks. He is well-versed in paintball warfare. And he is sitting on Hick's lifetime arsenal of mostly legal weapons. Oh, and any of you thinking of nabbing him for a hefty ransom...his nickname (in my mind) is Red Chief. And he has expensive tastes.
If the planets align, the biorhythms of the Thevictorian family all peak at the same time, and Even Steven is willing...I hope to see some of you at the The Book House on December 8th, between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m.
It's not like I'm trying to shelter him from the literary world. That boy reads all the time. He has a Kindle and a Kindle Fire. A bookshelf build along one wall of his room by Hick. He reads Clive Cussler, by cracky! We even have a library card for which we are ripped off $5.00 per person because we live outside the city limits. The problem is that there are no bookstores in Backroads.
When I was a kid, and an adolescent, and a young adult, a couple of bookstores tried to keep their papery heads above water in the Backroads small business lagoon. I suppose my purchases of a couple books every other week were not enough to keep them afloat. When they went under for the third time and entered Davy Jones's locker, I graduated to chains like B. Dalton at South County Mall, and Waldenbooks just across Lindbergh. The Pony has had to make do with Scholastic book orders, and my Amazon acumen. He is missing the whole bookstore ambiance. I fear he might believe that books are found under cabbage leaves, or delivered by the stork. I think it behooves me to expose The Pony to this cultural experience.
Add to my wacky Lucy-and-Ethel schemes a trip to The Book House on December 8th for a Chicken Soup signing by local authors. A foray fraught with more logistical machinations than the invasion of Normandy. Though the lure of a certain author with her magical butt encased in pajama jeans was strong, a visit to All on the Same Page was out. The Pony has his first high school academic meet at 9:00 a.m. I was not averse to a jaunt to St. Charles to drop by Main Street Books and, perhaps, partake of some gaming activities afterward. Alas, casinos are not Pony-friendly, and if his team gets knocked out of the smarts tournament early-on, The Pony has his bowling league at noon. So that left The Book House. Which looks perfectly charming and mysterious, if one is to judge a bookstore by its website.
Not only is Crocs aficionado Sioux signing books at The Book House, but Donna Volkenannt, a latter-day Erma Bombeck, will be there as well. I am not familiar enough with Beth M. Wood to skewer her on this page, but I have read about her exploits on Sioux's blog. So there you have it. If Linda "Eagle Eye" O'Connell makes good with her comment threat to show up at that venue, I could kill four birds with one stone. WAIT! I'm not going to kill you! Really. There will be witnesses. And I'm not a very good stone thrower. Back-knifing is more my style. WAIT! I will be unarmed. I promise. Will any menfolk be present to entertain Hick? His favorite topics are goats, chickens, flea market finds, and fixing machines. He's not exactly a bibliophile.
For anybody planning to invade my rural compound while I am way, let my forewarning forearm you. This means you, Publisher's Clearing House, student fundraiser beggars, Mormon missionaries, Jehovah's Witnesses bestowing gifts of The Watchtower, revenuers looking for a still down by Hick's creekside cabin, government operatives snooping into my conspiracy beliefs, and Wet Bandits. Genius will be home. Strapping seventeen-year-old Genius, who turns eighteen in less than two weeks. He is well-versed in paintball warfare. And he is sitting on Hick's lifetime arsenal of mostly legal weapons. Oh, and any of you thinking of nabbing him for a hefty ransom...his nickname (in my mind) is Red Chief. And he has expensive tastes.
If the planets align, the biorhythms of the Thevictorian family all peak at the same time, and Even Steven is willing...I hope to see some of you at the The Book House on December 8th, between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
A One-Man Game of Telephone
There are some people you would want in your enclave at the apocalypse. Somebody who can hunt and dress out a carcass (animal, of course) and provide you with protein. Somebody who can sharpen the chain on a chainsaw. Somebody who knows how machines work, and can fix them when they break. Who can make them run on alternative energy sources. Who can scrounge parts from abandoned equipment and create a gadget that does what you need. Somebody, perhaps, who can take an eighteen-wheeler and cut it down and rig up hydraulics to make it a dump truck. Or not. But Hick knows how, and has made such a dumper before. Hick is that person you would want in your enclave at the apocalypse.
He is not, however, somebody you would want to relay a message for you.
No sending Hick over hill and dale to the next enclave for trading or safety purposes. He would come home with a bag of magic beans, or start World War 4. Maybe both. Because Hick cannot repeat a sentence verbatim to save his life. Or the lives of his enclavemates.
Hick is a one-man game of telephone. He can misconstrue a message when talking to himself. A game of telephone played by twenty people would turn up a more precise version of the original statement than Hick alone. For that very reason, if he or the boys have an other-than-routine doctor's appointment, I must go along. To hear the diagnosis and instructions. Otherwise, Hick will create some new disease in the re-telling. And a care plan that includes buying a new car and driving it to Tahiti. Words are not his friends.
Imagine, if you will, a scenario in which Val might ask Hick to drive her to the big city to a bookstore. A bookstore where her bloggy friends might be signing books. The purpose being for Val to purchase a book or two, meet an online persona, and introduce The Pony to the world of retail tomes. No. Val would not use such flowery language on Hick. She would stick to the basics. "Val go bookstore. You drive."
Upon the re-tell to the boys, Hick could quite possibly say, "Your mother is running away with a guy she met on the internet who owns a bookstore, and she wants ME to drive her there!"
I am worried that one day, Hick will come home and tell me that his doctor says he needs a hysterectomy.
He is not, however, somebody you would want to relay a message for you.
No sending Hick over hill and dale to the next enclave for trading or safety purposes. He would come home with a bag of magic beans, or start World War 4. Maybe both. Because Hick cannot repeat a sentence verbatim to save his life. Or the lives of his enclavemates.
Hick is a one-man game of telephone. He can misconstrue a message when talking to himself. A game of telephone played by twenty people would turn up a more precise version of the original statement than Hick alone. For that very reason, if he or the boys have an other-than-routine doctor's appointment, I must go along. To hear the diagnosis and instructions. Otherwise, Hick will create some new disease in the re-telling. And a care plan that includes buying a new car and driving it to Tahiti. Words are not his friends.
Imagine, if you will, a scenario in which Val might ask Hick to drive her to the big city to a bookstore. A bookstore where her bloggy friends might be signing books. The purpose being for Val to purchase a book or two, meet an online persona, and introduce The Pony to the world of retail tomes. No. Val would not use such flowery language on Hick. She would stick to the basics. "Val go bookstore. You drive."
Upon the re-tell to the boys, Hick could quite possibly say, "Your mother is running away with a guy she met on the internet who owns a bookstore, and she wants ME to drive her there!"
I am worried that one day, Hick will come home and tell me that his doctor says he needs a hysterectomy.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Even Steven: A Stand-Up Guy
Even Steven toys with me. He fancies himself to be quite the comedian.
Thursday morning, I arrived at school at 1:50 a.m. That's what my wall clock told me. So I had to find a tall kid to take it down. But wouldn't you know it, the ONE day all year that Tall Kid didn't walk his girlfriend past my room to class was Thursday. So I had to find a small, wiry kid instead, who was willing to stand on a chair. Then I couldn't get the battery loose. So Small Wiry Kid did it for me. The old battery said MAR 2016. The battery I replaced it with said JAN 2010.
During my 2nd hour plan time, the lights went out. They're on a timer. So if I don't move within ten minutes, the lights go out. When I flapped my arms to make them come back on, the one above my desk did not. I have six lights. The worst one possible was out.
I went to enter scores in my gradebook program, but my detachable number pad would not work. The green light was out. I fiddled and faddled with the plug-in places on my laptop and dock until I got it to work. However...my mouse went dead. Twenty minutes of trial and error later, I had both in working order. "Why didn't you just use the little rolly mouse dealybobber on your keyboard between the G and the H?" you might ask. Here's why. It was gone. It had disappeared overnight. From the time I locked the door at 3:30 p.m. and unlocked it at 1:50 a.m.--oh, excuse me--at 7:35 a.m., that tiny round touchy thing had vanished. I was left with a square red plastic fixture that looked like a tiny fuse I used to plug into my car dashboards fuse box to make the lights work again.
"But Val," you say, because you are quite talkative with me while reading my posts, kind of like folks yelling advice at the actors in a horror movie, "what makes him Even Steven? A more appropriate name might be Take-Away Tommy."
He is still Even Steven because I got a balance of karma from him.
In the negative column we have:
dead clock
no Tall Kid
stuck battery
burned-out light
tampered laptop accouterments
missing keyboard mouse mini rolling ball thingy
In the positive column I received:
working clock
Small Wiry Kid
battery unstuck by tiny fingers of Small Wiry Kid
librarian had weather videos I requested sent to my room within five minutes
avoided collision when six-point buck ran across the road twenty feet in front of Tahoe
bagger in Walmart knew what she was doing
Yeah. He's not tit-for-tat, that Even Steven. But my karma is balanced. The earth will continue to spin on its axis.
Thursday morning, I arrived at school at 1:50 a.m. That's what my wall clock told me. So I had to find a tall kid to take it down. But wouldn't you know it, the ONE day all year that Tall Kid didn't walk his girlfriend past my room to class was Thursday. So I had to find a small, wiry kid instead, who was willing to stand on a chair. Then I couldn't get the battery loose. So Small Wiry Kid did it for me. The old battery said MAR 2016. The battery I replaced it with said JAN 2010.
During my 2nd hour plan time, the lights went out. They're on a timer. So if I don't move within ten minutes, the lights go out. When I flapped my arms to make them come back on, the one above my desk did not. I have six lights. The worst one possible was out.
I went to enter scores in my gradebook program, but my detachable number pad would not work. The green light was out. I fiddled and faddled with the plug-in places on my laptop and dock until I got it to work. However...my mouse went dead. Twenty minutes of trial and error later, I had both in working order. "Why didn't you just use the little rolly mouse dealybobber on your keyboard between the G and the H?" you might ask. Here's why. It was gone. It had disappeared overnight. From the time I locked the door at 3:30 p.m. and unlocked it at 1:50 a.m.--oh, excuse me--at 7:35 a.m., that tiny round touchy thing had vanished. I was left with a square red plastic fixture that looked like a tiny fuse I used to plug into my car dashboards fuse box to make the lights work again.
"But Val," you say, because you are quite talkative with me while reading my posts, kind of like folks yelling advice at the actors in a horror movie, "what makes him Even Steven? A more appropriate name might be Take-Away Tommy."
He is still Even Steven because I got a balance of karma from him.
In the negative column we have:
dead clock
no Tall Kid
stuck battery
burned-out light
tampered laptop accouterments
missing keyboard mouse mini rolling ball thingy
In the positive column I received:
working clock
Small Wiry Kid
battery unstuck by tiny fingers of Small Wiry Kid
librarian had weather videos I requested sent to my room within five minutes
avoided collision when six-point buck ran across the road twenty feet in front of Tahoe
bagger in Walmart knew what she was doing
Yeah. He's not tit-for-tat, that Even Steven. But my karma is balanced. The earth will continue to spin on its axis.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Things That Keep Val Awake
I woke up this morning wondering...
How do deaf people get up on time for work? It's not like they can set an alarm or a clock radio. It's not like the barking of three dogs just outside the French doors to their bedroom will wake them at 4:00 a.m. They can't have their mom call them to make sure they're up. So I'm guessing that they have some kind of system with a flashing light, perhaps. But what if they sleep with their head under the covers? Or what if they work night shift, and sleep during the day, and the room is already light? I mean, they've got it covered if they still live at home with hearing parents, or have a hearing spouse to wake them. I wish CBS would have shared a detail like that with us when Margie and Luke were contestants on The Amazing Race. I'm just worried about how the deaf can get a good night's sleep without fretting over getting to work on time.
Then I started wondering about people with dog doors. Not about them getting to work on time. About why they have those dog doors. The ones for big dogs. Don't they have tremendous heating and cooling bills? What with that flap of door letting hot air in during the summer, and letting heated air out during the winter? Not to mention the danger of a toddler escaping at will. And how about the vermin that might get in? How does that doggie door know if it's letting in the family pet, or a possum, or a skunk, or Ferris Bueller's creepy principal, Ed Rooney, or a Wet Bandit like Joe Pesci in Home Alone? I just want people with dog doors to be safe and energy-efficient.
Then I started wondering why people buy those little packs of eyeglasses screws and little screwdrivers in the check-out line. Because if their glasses have lost a screw, how in the world do they think they will be able to see to put the new screw in the glasses without wearing their glasses? Sure, they can have the glasses on to pick out a screw and the cute little screwdriver and have them ready. But then they have to take the glasses off their face in order to put the screw in, and that must be nigh on impossible for a bifocaled person to accomplish. I just want people to be able to see, and have glasses in good repair.
Then my alarm went off and my three dogs stopped yapping until the minute I sat down in the upstairs recliner for my morning chair nap after taking my shower to get ready for work.
How do deaf people get up on time for work? It's not like they can set an alarm or a clock radio. It's not like the barking of three dogs just outside the French doors to their bedroom will wake them at 4:00 a.m. They can't have their mom call them to make sure they're up. So I'm guessing that they have some kind of system with a flashing light, perhaps. But what if they sleep with their head under the covers? Or what if they work night shift, and sleep during the day, and the room is already light? I mean, they've got it covered if they still live at home with hearing parents, or have a hearing spouse to wake them. I wish CBS would have shared a detail like that with us when Margie and Luke were contestants on The Amazing Race. I'm just worried about how the deaf can get a good night's sleep without fretting over getting to work on time.
Then I started wondering about people with dog doors. Not about them getting to work on time. About why they have those dog doors. The ones for big dogs. Don't they have tremendous heating and cooling bills? What with that flap of door letting hot air in during the summer, and letting heated air out during the winter? Not to mention the danger of a toddler escaping at will. And how about the vermin that might get in? How does that doggie door know if it's letting in the family pet, or a possum, or a skunk, or Ferris Bueller's creepy principal, Ed Rooney, or a Wet Bandit like Joe Pesci in Home Alone? I just want people with dog doors to be safe and energy-efficient.
Then I started wondering why people buy those little packs of eyeglasses screws and little screwdrivers in the check-out line. Because if their glasses have lost a screw, how in the world do they think they will be able to see to put the new screw in the glasses without wearing their glasses? Sure, they can have the glasses on to pick out a screw and the cute little screwdriver and have them ready. But then they have to take the glasses off their face in order to put the screw in, and that must be nigh on impossible for a bifocaled person to accomplish. I just want people to be able to see, and have glasses in good repair.
Then my alarm went off and my three dogs stopped yapping until the minute I sat down in the upstairs recliner for my morning chair nap after taking my shower to get ready for work.
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